Empire of Stars
by Tobi is a good boy
Summary: Wonder Woman has been MIA and the world needs her more than ever. Journals given by a mysterious benefactor remind her that her past may be forgotten, but her legacy was not. She set out to save the world, to defeat Ares. Ares minions, Fear, Terror and Discord, will stop her at any cost. Luckily, she has a team to help...AU, Rated T, Some BruceXClark, DianaXSteve
1. Chapter 1

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own DC Comics, their characters, or the Wonder Woman film.

ONE

A black armoured van drove up to the Louvre, the engine idling. One of the guards got out, tightening their belt, checking the taser and hidden collapsible staff were in their proper places. The taser was there, along with the comforting presence of the staff.

This was not their normal territory, nor was it a normal mission, so it was good to be prepared.

Blonde hair streamed down in a tight ponytail from underneath a black cap that hid most of the guard's features. They opened the doors of the van to retrieve a lead-lined briefcase from the interior of the van.

"Ready St-Sp- _Batgirl_?" A voice asked from inside Batgirl's earpiece.

The blonde gave the briefest of nods towards the van and strode forwards, her steps confident.

Inside, the museum guards were polite enough when they saw the 'Wayne Securities' badge tacked onto her uniform.

"I must deliver this personally to Ms Prince," she explained once more to the man, nearly sighing with frustration. The more time it took to get her mission done, the less time that they all had. There were still too few of them, even with her, Robin, Batman, and the latest recruit, Flash. But she couldn't think about that now, she had to stay on mission.

"Yes, yes, and we must accompany you, _mademoiselle_. It is museum policy," and here he taped a sign on the desk that read: 'all deliveries must be accompanied by museum staff.'

Batgirl allowed a smile onto her face, "Ah, sorry, I did not realise. Still learning the ropes, ya know?"

The guard also smiled, getting up from his desk, "This way, _mademoiselle_."

He led her down a series of twisting hallways, down into the research offices and libraries. From all the schematics that Batgirl had looked up, she guessed that the office at the far end would be Ms Prince's office.

"Ms Prince?"

The most elegant woman Batgirl had ever seen looked up, crystalline eyes scanning her curiously. "Yes?" the woman answered, with an accent that Batgirl could not quite place.

"Delivery from Wayne Securities, Ms Prince."

"Ah, _merci._ " The woman gestured to the desk in front of her. As soon as she did so, the museum guard withdrew, his shoes clacking on the floor of the hallway. Batgirl waited until the sound faded completely and then placed the briefcase onto the desk softly.

"You might also want this," she added, pulling the letter from her jersey and handing it to the woman. "He'll be wanting your answer soon."

The woman stared at the letter and at her, "Who?"

"Mr. Wayne," replied Batgirl, with a smile, and then left. If Batgirl noticed that the woman's mouth tightened slightly at the name, she did not let it show.

Behind her, she heard the woman open the letter and the briefcase. She could only hope that Tim would be right, and it would work.

The world needed Wonder Woman more than ever.


	2. Chapter 2

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own D.C. Comics or the Wonder Woman film

TWO

Diana was familiar with the photograph, staring in the eyes of her former comrades and lover. The letters and journals she was less familiar with, the pages yellowing and soft under her fingertips.

The journal was leather bound, and rather battered, scuffed by the mark of a bullet. She opened the first page, curious and sat down to read.

 **Journal of Clark Kent, July 1918.**

It was before dawn when the telegraph arrived.

The messenger boy stood, breath streaming upwards in white puffs of steam on my doorstep. His bright red hair poked out from underneath a tight leather cap. He was thin, a red jacket wrapped tightly around him. Even in the summer, Metropolis nights could get rather cold. The street lights dimly glowed, the electricity humming as they began to power up for the eventual morning rush.

"Clark Kent?" His voice squeaked at the sight of me.

I was used to such reactions about my appearance, from my dark skin to my broad shoulders hardened by farm work. Comments about my appearance, mostly based on a presumption about my skin colour, had followed me from Smallville to Metropolis, though in Metropolis these comments were well hidden.

The boy stared, not at me, but at the naked expanse of my chest. "Clark Kent?"

I nodded, wrapping my dressing gown around me tightly. "Sorry, sorry," I bumbled. It would look decidedly odd if I did not appear to look cold, or like I had been awoken from sleep. So, there I stood, on my doorstep, pretending to be disgruntled and cold, staring at the messenger boy. He held a thick sheaf of paper in his hand.

I bent downwards to reach for it, and quicker, quicker than even _I_ could react, he twisted out of my reach.

"It's two dollars," he grinned at me.

"Two dollars?!" I asked.

The boy nodded, still grinning widely, as if the whole thing was a joke. I sighed heavily, and eventually found two dollars that I could give him. The notes were crumpled and smelt of smoke. He handed me the paper with a slight bow.

'CLARK KENT. ASAP DAILY PLANET. PW.' PW, of course, was Perry White, my editor.

Why would he send me a telegraph? In the middle of the night?

Perry White was notorious for his cheap ways, trying to save a penny here and everywhere. He would have never spent the cash on a telegraph unless it was extremely urgent.

I took a moment, thinking about the War abroad, how I assigned to cover the home effort instead of the front lines. It was good work, but not the work I wanted. I did want to be out there, in Europe, but it was too dangerous. The chance that I could be discovered, my powers-it could make the situation worse. My mother thanked the Lord every day that I had not been sent to the front, or to any part of the war, and that I was safe, in Metropolis.

"Thanks, kid," but the messenger boy was already gone, the electricity crackling in between the poles. I could almost swear that my front porch had been scorched by it, but it must have been my imagination.

I rushed to get dressed and managed to catch the first tram towards the Daily Planet offices, which was empty apart from the very disgruntled tram stewardess who looked at me which such disdain I thought I might explode. In my hurry, I had sat at the front of the trolley, rather than the back where I should, as a colored man, sit. The trolley was empty apart from me and the stewardess, so I stayed put. I pulled the collar of my coat upwards and was glad that my stop was not far.

The office was unusually eerie and quiet, devoid of the usual typists and colleagues. I made my way through the desks towards Perry's office, where the yellow electric light glowed from.

The door opened before I could reach it, Perry having thrust it open, a cigar already hanging from his lips. He ushered me in without a word.

On the desk was a sliver of whisky in a glass, glinting in the light.

"There's word," Perry took a deep breath, "from the British."

I nodded but said nothing.

"They say the end is near, that the Germans will sign the armistice. Mr. Wayne sent this-" Perry thrust a letter into my hands.

The paper was thick and heavy, embossed with the Wayne family crest. It was nothing like the cheap paper that I used to write home. I pushed my glasses upwards and read. Although my eyesight is technically perfect, it did not stop the words shifting or changing against my will.

'Perry, I have heard from I have heard from the British that they believe the Germans will sign the armistice. I should like a reporter here to conduct the usual interviews and the like of the behalf of the Daily Planet. You have recommended Mr. Kent before, and I believe he is the correct man for the job. I have arranged with the consulate for his papers, etc, etc. Mr. Olsen, I believe, is your photographer, who has been documenting the war, will be meeting Mr. Kent in London when he arrives.'

I looked up from the letter to see Perry, cigar in hand, a kind of mean grin on his face, "You leave first thing, kid."

All I could say was "Yes, sir."


	3. Chapter 3

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own D.C. Comics or Wonder Woman/Justice League

THREE

 **Journal of Clark Kent, July 1918**

It was all settled by the end of the week.

I was to meet Olsen-the Planet's long-time technology enthusiast, resident engineer (read: type-writer fixer) and avid photographer in London and go from there to Europe. It might have some dangers, well more than some, but I was excited by the prospect of visiting London. I had never been outside the country and hoped that I would come across as a professional, and not a backwards country bumpkin from Kansas. At this was my hope.

Of course, when I had moved from Kansas to Metropolis, I had taken care to try and act like I fitted in. It was even more essential now than ever, especially heading towards the War.

My papers were packed and ready, a letter of introduction from Perry tucked into the breast pocket of my coat. I hoped that someone would be able to read Perry's notorious scrawl, but his secretary had kindly typed me a copy. I also had some money, very safely tucked into my briefcase for my journey to Europe from Perry.

I travelled by steamer up river, across state lines and towards the port. The US navy had a small naval base there- not as big as the major ones, but it would do for my needs. From the port, I caught a cab towards the base and gave the driver a small tip- the last of my American coins (having no need of them in London).

The naval base was a hive of activity, orders being shouted here and there, the sound of saws running and heartbeats racing. The guard looked at me with disinterest, waving me in after a cursory glance at my paperwork. He had a naval rate escort me through the yard to the Captain. The naval rate was young, with curly black hair and bright blue eyes, his short stride easily keeping up with mine. At last, we made it through the yard to the Officer's area, where the rate saluted towards the gentlemen gathered.

"Captain Yates, Mr. Clark Kent for you."

One of the men stood, saluting back, "Thank you, Curry, you may go."

The rate saluted crisply and left us.

The Captain of our ship was a hardy fellow, his skin burnt and lined after many years at sea. His thick eyebrows rose at my letter, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read.

"These politico types," he snorted, "thinkin' they can just get things done with a-" here he snapped his fingers to demonstrate. "Well, he's payin' decent but that's only gonna get you into the hold-my cabins are for my men. Understood."

I nodded and was shown by another rate into the hold, where I would sleep, and that I was free to roam the upper deck if I did not interfere and obeyed any order given. I was more than happy to do this, and I said so. I spent most of the days exploring the ship, or on the deck, scribbling letters, or gazing at the stars above.

Unlike Metropolis, the air was clear and so was the sky. The bright stars stretched out endlessly, the name of each in my own tongue signing softly to me.

Our trip was mostly uneventful, but the closer we got the British Isles, the more the sailors got restless. They sometimes stared out onto the waves, looking at the water for their enemies. I, of course, could not reassure them that there was nothing but the thrum of ocean life beneath. All the lanterns were shuttered at night, even smoking was not allowed, lest the flame been seen in the darkness. I did not mind- I enjoyed the quiet peace.

One night our ship, silent to most ears but mine, lit up with shouts, guns been cocked. I was in the hold, so raced upwards with my notebook and pencil in hand. The smell of sweat was thick around me.

There was another ship ahead that I could see, but even to my superior sight it was all but a dark shape.

I looked out, my heart racing, but it was a British ship that came towards us, flying the Union Jack colours in a kind of show of defiance, the Scottish flag underneath. They were here to escort us back into the port.

The sailors all let out a sigh of relief and greeted their British counterparts with a few half-hearted cheers. It did not take us long to get to the port, shoved onto land as quickly as was polite and onto a bus towards the great city of London.


	4. Chapter 4

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own D.C. Comics or Wonder Woman/Justice League

THREE

 **Journal of Clark Kent, July 1918**

It was all settled by the end of the week.

I was to meet Olsen-the Planet's long-time technology enthusiast, resident engineer (read: type-writer fixer) and avid photographer in London and go from there to Europe. It might have some dangers, well more than some, but I was excited by the prospect of visiting London. I had never been outside the country and hoped that I would come across as a professional, and not a backwards country bumpkin from Kansas. At this was my hope.

Of course, when I had moved from Kansas to Metropolis, I had taken care to try and act like I fitted in. It was even more essential now than ever, especially heading towards the War.

My papers were packed and ready, a letter of introduction from Perry tucked into the breast pocket of my coat. I hoped that someone would be able to read Perry's notorious scrawl, but his secretary had kindly typed me a copy. I also had some money, very safely tucked into my briefcase for my journey to Europe from Perry.

I travelled by steamer up river, across state lines and towards the port. The US navy had a small naval base there- not as big as the major ones, but it would do for my needs. From the port, I caught a cab towards the base and gave the driver a small tip- the last of my American coins (having no need of them in London).

The naval base was a hive of activity, orders being shouted here and there, the sound of saws running and heartbeats racing. The guard looked at me with disinterest, waving me in after a cursory glance at my paperwork. He had a naval rate escort me through the yard to the Captain. The naval rate was young, with curly black hair and bright blue eyes, his short stride easily keeping up with mine. At last, we made it through the yard to the Officer's area, where the rate saluted towards the gentlemen gathered.

"Captain Yates, Mr. Clark Kent for you."

One of the men stood, saluting back, "Thank you, Curry, you may go."

The rate saluted crisply and left us.

The Captain of our ship was a hardy fellow, his skin burnt and lined after many years at sea. His thick eyebrows rose at my letter, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read.

"These politico types," he snorted, "thinkin' they can just get things done with a-" here he snapped his fingers to demonstrate. "Well, he's payin' decent but that's only gonna get you into the hold-my cabins are for my men. Understood."

I nodded and was shown by another rate into the hold, where I would sleep, and that I was free to roam the upper deck if I did not interfere and obeyed any order given. I was more than happy to do this, and I said so. I spent most of the days exploring the ship, or on the deck, scribbling letters, or gazing at the stars above.

Unlike Metropolis, the air was clear and so was the sky. The bright stars stretched out endlessly, the name of each in my own tongue signing softly to me.

Our trip was mostly uneventful, but the closer we got the British Isles, the more the sailors got restless. They sometimes stared out onto the waves, looking at the water for their enemies. I, of course, could not reassure them that there was nothing but the thrum of ocean life beneath. All the lanterns were shuttered at night, even smoking was not allowed, lest the flame been seen in the darkness. I did not mind- I enjoyed the quiet peace.

One night our ship, silent to most ears but mine, lit up with shouts, guns been cocked. I was in the hold, so raced upwards with my notebook and pencil in hand. The smell of sweat was thick around me.

There was another ship ahead that I could see, but even to my superior sight it was all but a dark shape.

I looked out, my heart racing, but it was a British ship that came towards us, flying the Union Jack colours in a kind of show of defiance, the Scottish flag underneath. They were here to escort us back into the port.

The sailors all let out a sigh of relief and greeted their British counterparts with a few half-hearted cheers. It did not take us long to get to the port, shoved onto land as quickly as was polite and onto a bus towards the great city of London.


	5. Chapter 5

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own D.C. Comics or Wonder Woman/ Justice League

FOUR

 **JOURNAL OF BRUCE WAYNE, JULY 1918**

 **LONDON**

It was mid-afternoon when my secretary, a thin, rakish woman, who painted her equally thin lips bright red in the hopes (rather vainly, in my opinion) of gaining a husband knocked upon my door. She of course, had the good sense not to flirt with me, and I neither with her.

It was more known that I had a preference for blondes, apparently, according to the tabloid papers. I had noticed a definite increase of blondes being employed in the secretary pool since, to my annoyance.

My secretary's knock awoke me from deep thought, and it took a moment before it registered.

"Mister Kent and Mister Olsen to see you sir."

I noticed how she stayed longer on the word Kent than usual. Was it because I had chosen a relatively unknown reporter, or that he was American? Did she somehow, disapprove of my choice? Or was it because he, like me, had not succumbed to the threat of the red lipstick?

No, Mr. Kent came highly recommended to me by Mr. Perry, whom I trusted.

Also, unlike the British reporters, Mr. Kent could provide an outsider's view-which was exactly needed for something like this.

I attempted to clear my desk as best I could, but there was no hiding the stacks of papers and knickknacks.

Eventually, I gave up.

"Alright,let them in."

Mr. Olsen, or Jimmy, to those that knew him, was a well-known socialite and political photographer. He was a youngish lad, with poker straight red hair, bright freckles and always wore suits that seemed more than second-hand. The Scotsman would be perfectly suited to the task at hand. He always somehow got the job done, even if the job seemed impossible.

"Mornin' Mr. Wayne," greeted Jimmy, before sinking into the depths of one the leather lounge chairs.

"Morning Jimmy," I replied back with a smile.

Next in through the doorway stepped one of the tallest men I had ever seen, perhaps even taller than I. He had dark, curling hair that mused over his face, and a strong, curved nose that some might claim as Jewish. His skin was dark, not unlike someone from India or Persia, completely and utterly unlike the picture I had of him in my head from Perry's description. I expected a blonde, blue-eyed, corn-breed American from Kansas.

Not-not a shy, tall man whose suit was ill fitting-and glasses steamed from the omnipresent London fog. With thin fingers, the man deftly took the glasses off his face. I could only gain a hint at steely blue eyes before they were replaced.

"Mr. Kent. I mean-Clark, Clark Kent, sir."

He held out a delicate looking hand, the finger tips still stained with ink.

I took it, "Bruce," and shook, surprised at the strength under such delicate fingers.

"Please sit," and indicated the other lounge chair.

Clark sat, sinking slowly downwards, looking nervously around my office. On one wall, there was a portrait of my father, the founder of the company, loomed over us.

"Well, here is a list of persons of interest, and a ball of course, for the society piece. Local celebrities, socialites, industrialists- that kind of thing. Now, of course, the other is Sir Patrick. He has been advocating for peace talks with Germany. I have, of course, arranged for an interview with him as well."

I slid across my desk a bundle of documents that my secretary had put together. To my surprise, Mr. Kent did not touch them. Instead, I found myself eye to eye with him.

"I was of the understanding, Mr. Wayne, that I would be speaking to people-"

"You are speaking to people, Mr. Kent."

"No, not socialites or industrialists or politicians. Regular people!"

"Socialites, industrialists and politicians sell newspapers. The others, they can wait, perhaps for a fluff piece if needed. I run a business, Mr. Kent, not a charity, as I am sure you are aware."

"But you may agree that newspapers are sold by names- and someone is far more interested in what Uncle Tommy or their sisters are doing. Those types-socialites, politicians-and begging your pardon, sir, industrialists, do not care. They just care about winning. At whatever cost. Jimmy here could get some photographs-"

Jimmy flushed bright red, nearly matching in with the red wallpaper.

"No, Mr. Kent," I stood, pressing the documents further towards the man. "You are to observe, report and interview upon this." To make my point clear, I tapped the folder between us.

Clark Kent sniffed, gritting his teeth, "Very well, sir." He lifted himself with a kind of heave out of the chair, "Jimmy, come on."

Jimmy gave me a flustered and rather apologetic look, his ears now turning red. "Sorry, sir," he said, leaving the room.

I sat back down in my chair.

Well, that went well.


	6. Chapter 6

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own D.C. Comics or Wonder Woman/ Justice League

FOUR

 **JOURNAL OF BRUCE WAYNE, JULY 1918**

 **LONDON**

It was mid-afternoon when my secretary, a thin, rakish woman, who painted her equally thin lips bright red in the hopes (rather vainly, in my opinion) of gaining a husband knocked upon my door. She of course, had the good sense not to flirt with me, and I neither with her.

It was more known that I had a preference for blondes, apparently, according to the tabloid papers. I had noticed a definite increase of blondes being employed in the secretary pool since, to my annoyance.

My secretary's knock awoke me from deep thought, and it took a moment before it registered.

"Mister Kent and Mister Olsen to see you sir."

I noticed how she stayed longer on the word Kent than usual. Was it because I had chosen a relatively unknown reporter, or that he was American? Did she somehow, disapprove of my choice? Or was it because he, like me, had not succumbed to the threat of the red lipstick?

No, Mr. Kent came highly recommended to me by Mr. Perry, whom I trusted.

Also, unlike the British reporters, Mr. Kent could provide an outsider's view-which was exactly needed for something like this.

I attempted to clear my desk as best I could, but there was no hiding the stacks of papers and knickknacks.

Eventually, I gave up.

"Alright,let them in."

Mr. Olsen, or Jimmy, to those that knew him, was a well-known socialite and political photographer. He was a youngish lad, with poker straight red hair, bright freckles and always wore suits that seemed more than second-hand. The Scotsman would be perfectly suited to the task at hand. He always somehow got the job done, even if the job seemed impossible.

"Mornin' Mr. Wayne," greeted Jimmy, before sinking into the depths of one the leather lounge chairs.

"Morning Jimmy," I replied back with a smile.

Next in through the doorway stepped one of the tallest men I had ever seen, perhaps even taller than I. He had dark, curling hair that mused over his face, and a strong, curved nose that some might claim as Jewish. His skin was dark, not unlike someone from India or Persia, completely and utterly unlike the picture I had of him in my head from Perry's description. I expected a blonde, blue-eyed, corn-breed American from Kansas.

Not-not a shy, tall man whose suit was ill fitting-and glasses steamed from the omnipresent London fog. With thin fingers, the man deftly took the glasses off his face. I could only gain a hint at steely blue eyes before they were replaced.

"Mr. Kent. I mean-Clark, Clark Kent, sir."

He held out a delicate looking hand, the finger tips still stained with ink.

I took it, "Bruce," and shook, surprised at the strength under such delicate fingers.

"Please sit," and indicated the other lounge chair.

Clark sat, sinking slowly downwards, looking nervously around my office. On one wall, there was a portrait of my father, the founder of the company, loomed over us.

"Well, here is a list of persons of interest, and a ball of course, for the society piece. Local celebrities, socialites, industrialists- that kind of thing. Now, of course, the other is Sir Patrick. He has been advocating for peace talks with Germany. I have, of course, arranged for an interview with him as well."

I slid across my desk a bundle of documents that my secretary had put together. To my surprise, Mr. Kent did not touch them. Instead, I found myself eye to eye with him.

"I was of the understanding, Mr. Wayne, that I would be speaking to people-"

"You are speaking to people, Mr. Kent."

"No, not socialites or industrialists or politicians. Regular people!"

"Socialites, industrialists and politicians sell newspapers. The others, they can wait, perhaps for a fluff piece if needed. I run a business, Mr. Kent, not a charity, as I am sure you are aware."

"But you may agree that newspapers are sold by names- and someone is far more interested in what Uncle Tommy or their sisters are doing. Those types-socialites, politicians-and begging your pardon, sir, industrialists, do not care. They just care about winning. At whatever cost. Jimmy here could get some photographs-"

Jimmy flushed bright red, nearly matching in with the red wallpaper.

"No, Mr. Kent," I stood, pressing the documents further towards the man. "You are to observe, report and interview upon this." To make my point clear, I tapped the folder between us.

Clark Kent sniffed, gritting his teeth, "Very well, sir." He lifted himself with a kind of heave out of the chair, "Jimmy, come on."

Jimmy gave me a flustered and rather apologetic look, his ears now turning red. "Sorry, sir," he said, leaving the room.

I sat back down in my chair.

Well, that went well.


	7. Chapter 7

Empire of Stars

Tobi is a good boy

I do not own Wonder Woman or Justice League

FIVE

 **JOURNAL OF CLARK KENT, JULY 1918**

That infuriating man! To think that he just – he just- the nerve!

London is everything and nothing like I expected it to be- all the noise and people, and the fog. So many people! I've never seen the like, even in Metropolis.

Jimmy Olsen, my new companion, is a good natured, affable boy. He comes from Glasgow, in the northern country of Scotland. His accents lilts and tilts as he speaks. I sometimes struggle to understand but try my best to keep up. He is taking us to his 'local' (what they term their bars that they frequent usually) and has kindly offered me his spare sofa, rather than the accommodation at the Daily Planet. (Little more than a powder room, cold as ice, Mr. Kent, now, I have a small sofa, sir, and that I would say is much better for you- a rough translation).

Jimmy is well liked and thought of by others, often stopping to chat to him in the street. I get odd looks but 'oohs' and 'ahhs' once he explains I am Mr. Wayne's American visitor. Clearly, Jimmy is lapping up at the attention from it.

The pub we go to is lively, full of music and jostling people.

"We'll get youse settled in nae time, Mr. Kent!" Jimmy said, bringing me some Cider. It is cool to my mouth, the bitter apple flavour lasting in my throat.

"I don't think Mr. Wayne likes me," I offered, after swallowing.

"Oh – that! He's like that to everyone, ya ken. It's nothin' person'l, just business."

"But to write off ordinary people-"

"Oh, fashing yerself! Dinnae! Mr Wayne is one of London's biggest charitables – one of them that gives thousands to charity every year. Why, he eve has a son he adopted. 'Orrible circumstances that Richard Grayson had; but Mr Wayne being an orphan himself took it adopt the lad when no one else would. Somethin' bout the lad being a Romani – that's one of the travelling peoples."

I drank more of my cider.

Mr Wayne, Bruce Wayne, an orphan?

All that I knew was that his parents were dead, but that seemed ordinary to me. After all, I was adopted by Ma and Pa. It shocked me that a man who could appear so cold would be able to be a father to a child.

"Mr Wayne is an orphan?"

"Oh aye! His parents were murdered. Right in front of him!"

"That's awful," I said, trying to imagine Ma or Pa Kent dying, but I couldn't. I suddenly felt bad for my sour mood towards Mr. Wayne. I had judged him wrong.

"Well," I said, smiling, "What's first after this?"

"Ball tonight. Sir Patrick attendin' and Mr Wayne of course," Jimmy replied, smiling, "Lot's of pretty gals too."

I tried to grin as well at that, "Well, they do say the ladies in Europe are very refined."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, "Maybe, but them that say that have never seen ladies drunk at a ball." 

We discussed our plans of questions and photograph opportunities, as well as Jimmy ensuring that I would be able to sweep the British ladies off their feet with my sweet, southern American charm.


End file.
